


Somebody To Divide It With

by innie



Category: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society - Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 17:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12462660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie
Summary: Sidney writes to his sister to tell her about Juliet's wedding.





	Somebody To Divide It With

**Author's Note:**

  * For [edna_blackadder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edna_blackadder/gifts).



> Thank you to my recipient for the wonderful prompts!
> 
> Thank you to victoria_p (musesfool) and AuKestrel for being such generous betas!
> 
> Title from Mark Twain - "Grief can take care of itself; but to get the full value of a joy you must have somebody to divide it with."

_From Sidney to Sophie_

 

20th September, 1946

Dear Soapy,

Something in this Guernsey air must be making me sentimental; I have been musing, while preparing for tomorrow's formalisation of the bond between Juliet and Dawsey, on the new bond Dominic and I will share once you have brought forth your latest bundle of joy and he is officially an Elder Brother, with all the honours and responsibilities pertaining thereto. He cannot yet realise that his name will be the first casualty of the lifelong struggle into which he will be pitched, but I will make him aware that in this battle, at least, he may reciprocate without mercy. If one small sister can corrupt _Sidney_ into _Kidney_ and thence into _Pie_ when she is egged on by another cherubic-faced young demon, said brother ought, if he has any spirit at all, to turn _Sophie_ into the more satisfying _Soapy_. One might even speculate that such a sister was getting away far too easily with such an anodyne - indeed, patently purifying - nickname and commend the brother for his forbearance. I do wonder if Dominic will display that same admirable restraint.

Before I forget again to ask - how is he enjoying the bagpipe I sent? Would that he had mastered the instrument and been produced on Guernsey tonight, on the eve of Juliet's wedding, where at least his joyful noise might have covered up the sound of Juliet smashing every bit of crockery with which she came into contact, bliss apparently being as shattering to her nerves (or at least hand-to-eye coordination) as anxiety. Kit eyed her sidelong for some time before deciding the opportunity was ripe for a little judicious naughtiness, and made to smash the last intact plate, as if to say this ritual was only to be expected of kindred spirits who made themselves into family. But Dawsey, bless him and his steady ways, liberated the plate from her little clutches, tapped her on the nose, and sent her off with a patient smile to Isola, who needed an opportunity to rest her eyes from all the shifty darting about they were doing. Here I must admit, I was not quick enough - either to remove myself from their vicinity or to believe Juliet when she hinted darkly that Dawsey's shyness had been but a clever ploy - and so I saw Dawsey sit like the creaky kitchen chair was his throne, pull Juliet onto his lap, and feed her cake by hand.

My feet grew wings at the sight, but not before I saw joy simply radiating from the pair of them. Not since you and Alexander have I been subjected to such a display. (Such looks of glowing happiness are only bearable when directed at - and caused by - one's own self. I will say here that I find Piers's face particularly pleasing.) Amelia had come, and was trying to tame Kit's hair whilst also winkling out from Isola what clever plans were afoot for the morrow. I suspect that Isola has designs upon me. I must rest if I am to foil them. Will write more once Juliet is safely wed and I will no longer be held responsible for such a hoyden.

 

21st September

Juliet is now Juliet Adams, and when Eli - well-mannered child - addressed her as such, she blinked and said she wouldn't have to change any of her monograms. Dawsey smiled his slow smile and she admitted she'd never monogrammed a thing in her life, and that the J's on her handkerchiefs were due to the kind offices of her closest friend, dearest Sophie; love has made an honest woman of our Juliet in a manner unsuspected by the coiner of that phrase.

Truly, Soaps, she is blooming like a rose, wifehood and motherhood and friendship and work all contributing to her health and happiness. Dawsey sketches absent-mindedly - I have caught him at it, and I am convinced it was only my return to London that allowed Isola to pip me to the post and get these two engaged - and when you see her caught by his pencil, you will understand how radiant she is in the flesh. She is the Juliet we wanted her to be.

Which includes, of course, poorly timed confessions, inappropriate laughter, and cheerful admissions of folly to go with the gift of happiness. I walked her down the aisle - she was wearing a dress of that greenish-blue she likes and carrying white lilacs - and she took advantage of the protection offered her by Amelia's veil to whisper that she was three for three in injuring the men she loved. Not only had she broken my leg (a story that she seems to find markedly more hilarious each time she recalls it, though I do not), and not only had she been the cause of her father's bad knee (she shouted "Charge!" when he was giving her a piggyback ride, and he unwittingly stepped into a rabbit burrow and wrenched his knee), but she timed her proposal to Dawsey propitiously, if she was aiming to make a clean sweep of it. Apparently he was on a ladder when she blurted out that she loved him and asked him to marry her, and the shock was enough to send him tumbling down with sufficient velocity for him to sprain his ankle.

I will admit that the vibrations of her silent laughter felt very pleasant against my side as we toddled down the aisle. When I murmured in her ear that she should have modelled her behaviour more closely on yours - after all, Alexander did not require a crash helmet or padded gear during your courtship - her laughter became audible to all. Kit's answering giggles meant her accuracy in scattering rose petals in Juliet's path through Amelia's back garden dwindled to practically zero, and so we were all wearing soft little scarlet badges while Juliet and Dawsey pledged themselves to each other.

It was during the dancing that Isola struck. She sidled up to me - her sidling must be seen to be believed, my words can do it no justice - and said, quite at her normal volume, that as Juliet and Dawsey were married now and had a whole house, or rather, two whole houses to avail themselves of, I could have "the freedom of the shrubbery," and then her eyes cut sideways to encompass John Booker. John Booker, it must be admitted, is a fine specimen of a man, being tall and dark and having the splendid figure of a London lord's valet; Isola's Austenian embroiderings were well aimed, but I found myself thinking of Piers's great grey eyes and the dear little frown he pulls when he writes. And I thought, too, that Juliet had not once urged me to think of Booker - perhaps out of loyalty to Piers? - and suspected that Isola had simply decided to bring the only two homosexuals she knew of together. She is not the only one who can play that game, and my reach is longer than hers; Sir William Otis might enjoy discussing Seneca with a handsome man, whether in or out of the shrubbery.

And now I am off to bed, having earned every minute of my slumber. I return to London on the morrow, and if you are very good - and promise that I will not be serenaded by my nephew - I will hop up to the farm to see you and the perfect little person you will produce. After that, Australia beckons, and I should have Juliet's ms to read on the plane. People say the world is getting smaller, but it does not feel that way to me, with the people I love scattered at the corners of it. Perhaps Piers and I should rent out the Big House that Kit inherited from Elizabeth, and install you and your brood there year-round while he and I drop in for the holidays? It would feel so safe, so - as Juliet says - happy-making, to see everyone I care about in one place. But this is all putting the cart before the horse; Piers's eyes may be luminous but his mouth has said not one word about throwing his lot in with me. I may have to spring it on him, as Juliet did to Dawsey, and if he is on top of a stepladder, so much the better. I can always catch him if he falls.

Love to you all,  
Pie


End file.
